Harlequin
by iloveroymustang
Summary: An account of what happened inside the closed wall of Joker's cell (in The asylum) and how Harley became the girl we know today.
1. Chapter 1

Harlequin

I wonder what's its like a to be a psychopath, to have voices inside your head ranting a million miles per hour, to have the urge to hurt someone...badly... when you know it in your head that it's not right. I learned everything about how to distinguish them in a crowd of people, I learned the little idiosyncrasies they all seem to share, but nobody ever taught me what makes them that way. Nobody ever taught me why they do the things they do. And I'd been dying to know...

That was, until I met him.

Surreal is the best way to describe that place: the Arkham Asylum. Thousands resided here, some insane, some made insane, but it always felt empty. Long dim hallways, half -faded florescent lights, occupied by moths and god knows what else, and a series of doors with dirty, fist-sized windows –it had a kind of aura that made you want to check behind your back every time you take a step.

I had the same feeling you got at the first day of school: the feeling dread and excitement mixed to form noxious sensations in my stomach. With two guards behind me, I walked through a small beige door marked 11. The first thing I noticed was the smell, a pleasant blend of fresh linen and cranberry and, at once, the tingling in my feet and the stiffness of my arms all melted way; I don't know what I was expecting but this was not it. The room, like all rooms, was derelict: the once white walls, now yellow, were decorated with drip marks from the falling rain, the black and white tiles cracked, and a single florescent light bulb drooped from the ceiling.

A forlorn twin size bed rested in the back corner, and on it, looking more pitiful, was the Joker.

The infamous Joker: Batman's arch nemesis. The only pictures I had seen of him were from the textbook, black and white photographs of a man laughing hysterically. The photograph had produced nothing but fear and innate curiosity, but now...

He leaned against a pillow, drooping, his long legs half folded and half hanging from the side of the bed. His hair, shining midnight green, hung loosely to his chin with a part in the middle. His paper white skin, under the harsh light, exposed all of his blue veins. And of course – stretching almost to his eyes from both sides of his lips were the scars – giving him the illusion of a perpetual smile.

"His feet are rather small; not like a clown at all," that was my idiotic thought as I stood in front of him, gaping.

"You gonna talk, doc?" he crooned. I dismissed the guards and closed the door behind me.

"So, tell me a little about yourself," I asked, seating myself beside him.

"Well don't you know everything about me? I'm sure they've got hundreds of files about me. So sorry you had to read all that, doc."

That was true; they did have hundreds of files on him: his crimes, his victims, his associates, but nothing _about_ him.

" What is your favorite color?" I tried again.

"Ha! Can't you tell?" he jerked his legs and stood, facing me, throwing his arms into the air, "Green, of course. Perfect, pale green!"

I was bewildered, but I must have looked scared, because he suddenly sat down and giggled into my ear, "oh, don't worry, doc, I'm not gonna hurt ya." Then he pulled away slowly, muttering, " not just yet..."


	2. Chapter 2

I went home at 5 o'clock, tired and hungry. My own room was not much better than the asylum cells – bleak walls, a tattered bed, a rocking chair by the tiny window, and a small study desk by a dresser. Funny how you spend all time getting your education to get a job, and then spend all the money from your job to pay for that education. Its a never ending cycle, nevertheless the one we have no choice but to follow.

I threw my bag on the bed and undressed, slowly; first the heavy black suit, then the suit pant, kicking my heels along with it. Pacing around the room, I unbuttoned my tan button-down shirt. Its true – I dressed to hide myself. In a world full of criminals, no need to invite more trouble when you can prevent it. My mother always used to say, "An idiot learns my experience, a wise man learns by watching." And I knew too well that even good men lose their senses sometimes.

But, at home I was free. I slipped on my red silk robe and hopped on the bed with my laptop.

" Will you answer my questions today?" I began my third week of sessions.

" That blouse looks great on you, doc. Red is really your color."

"I just realized I never asked you, what is your real name?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"Yes"

"Why?"

"Why? Its because ...because I want to know you better."

It scared me how true that was.

"Well, lets do it properly then. What is your name?"

"Harleen. Harleen Quinzel."

"Ohh, that's cute. But a little too long for everyday use don't ya think? How 'bout I call you Harley?"

"Sure, it that makes you confortable."

"Very confortable. But there is one more thing I've been dying to know. You were in that car, weren't you? You were in the car when your parents died."

I froze.

"This is not the subject of your discussion. Please answer the original question. I am trying to help you."

"But, why can't you answer me? Do you have something to hide?"

"No."

"You can tell me. Who do I have to tell anyway, I am locked up in here, under your care."

"I... I don't know what you're talking about. I have done nothing wrong."

"Why? Are you the reason they died? Did you kill them, your parents? Ohhh, what a scandal that would be! A murderer consulting psychopaths."

"No."

"Tell me how did it happen, how did you do it?"

"I didn't."

"You liar. You are a psychopathic, murderer, liar. OH, what else have you done? Tell me! Tell me! Tell me!"

"SHUT UP! I DIDN'T DO ANYTHING"

A pause, followed by a throaty sound.

"But I just wanted to know. No need to yell at me. You make me feel so scared."

"I'm sorry..."

"Oh, I am so scared. I just asked if you were in the car. And you didn't tell me anything so I was just so sad. You don't trust me enough to tell me anything. You don't like me at all. You hate me. You think I'm ugly. You don't want to cure me; you are just using me as a specimen, to observe, to play, to _enjoy_.

He spat out the last word.

"NO! That's not true at all," I screamed, "I am here to help you. I want to help you!"

Do I though? Why was I seeing the Joker anyway? It's because no one wanted him. No one wanted to take to take the risk, to brave the danger. "I have kids," they said, "and family. I didn't become a doctor to ruin my own life." But I had nothing to lose. And with this job came the prospect of a promotion, and a hope of finally getting on with my life with a fresh start, back with my family...

" I am here to help you," I said again, for myself rather than for him.

Why had I become a psychiatrist anyway? Why had I chosen this profession? Why was it that the minds of these people appealed to me so much? I don't know. But I had a natural ability to decipher them. I could match their step, their thought, and their motive. I could silence their every retort with another question, and they would be quiet for a week, submerged in quiet contemplation. I guess my appearance helped, a naïve little blonde in blocky glasses and outdated getup. Nobody expected me to be much of a threat, and humored me. I graduated the top of my class, with an impressive portfolio of patients. But with the Joker it was different. He was responsive enough, calm enough, but he was still a raging fire within. His face wore a smile, but his eyes gleamed with murderous light and his countenance always hinted that he had the upper hand. Every session with him I tried to gain control, but he would just raise his eyebrows, that murderous gleam would burn and blaze and he would attack with ferocity, then, once I'd lost my train of thought, he would soften, even his eyes would smile and I would be left, exhausted

" I think that's enough for today, doc. I am sleepy. Will I see you next time?"

"Yes"

A giggle.

"We'll see what happens. If you make it though, I tell you a really cool story, much better than my real name, the story of how I got these scars."


	3. Chapter 3

I woke up with knots in my stomach at three in morning. It was still dark outside. In the gloomy morning of Gotham city, stars still shone brightly. The tingling in my hands would not go away, and neither would the pinpricks all over my body. Sweaty palms, achy neck, racing heart ... just from thinking about it...

How did he get those scars?

I would be the first person to know. The only person to know in this city ... in this world!

But he wouldn't even tell me his name. Is this a trick? Ha. Every word he said felt like a trick. Every sentence felt measured and sharpened for a ferocious attack.

They said the Joker didn't think. They said he didn't plan. They said that's what made him so dangerous. But...was that really true? Not form what I could tell.

But did this mean he trusted me? He was willing to trust me? He was going to tell me how it happened. If it was an accident, or an attack...or...

And suddenly an image of a young buy passed through my head: a young, healthy boy – all smiles and rosy cheeks – beckoning his mother to come play with him, to help him fly his kite.

Does this mean... he _likes_ me?

"Red again I see," he hummed as I slipped in through the door.

"Good morning, Joker. I hope you slept well."

"Oh, darling, I never sleep... It helps me stay insane."

"Today you were going to tell me about your past?" _Thump_ , _thump_ , _thump_ : I could hardly hear my voice.

"A promise is a promise..."

I wondered if he could hear my heart.

"But I don't give for nothing in return. I want you to tell your story first."

I froze.

"I have no story to tell."

"You know, when I was a little boy, I loved playing hide and seek. I used to always play with my sister. Don't you have a sister, doc?" he purred in a low melodious hum. He crossed his legs and held himself up by his elbow, tilting his face with a subtle smile.

" Yes," I was mesmerized. "How did you know?"

"Ha, just a feeling. Anyway, my mother was a lovely woman. The best-looking lady in town I dare say, but our dad. Ah... our dad. But by the way, was she in the car that night?" He licked his lips, and his eyes gazed at me warmly. They looked like stars...the moon, actually. Two shiny, crescent moons. There was so much light trapped in those eyes! As he leaned forward his hair fell to his face, framing it in a luminous green.

Why did he keep asking questions like that? I wanted to hear _him_ , I wanted to keep listening to that honey smooth voice...

"Yes, she was. I was driving, she was in the back, my dad next to me."

"Well, my dad was a drunkard, and he loved gambling. Classic isn't it? My mother worked from dawn to dusk and when we had all gone to bed, he'd come home late and bang on the door. My sister and I both hated the sight of him... his voice made my blood boil over in anger... the mare thought of him..."

His brows furrowed and his hands shook. All softness was gone from his voice – he spit out every word like they were broken glass. His eyes were gleaming.

Tears...

"No, its ok, you don't have to..." I stammered.

"Not tell you? My god! Why?"

He was right in front of in a single stride.

"Are you scared?" His slender hands slipped behind my neck, grabbing a mop of my hair. His face was so close now... I could feel his breathe on my face. His lips inches form my ear, his finger running down my spine, he whispered, " Haven't _you_ ever felt that way?"

Then he pulled away. So quickly. So coldly. Leaving me shivering...for more.

"Our mother didn't have dinner ready for him that night. We didn't have any more food."

A smirk.

"Do you know what he did to her? He beat her. He beat her till she couldn't walk, and then he stabbed her. He stabbed her until she couldn't talk ...until she burst apart and spilled all over the floor ...until...

"It was so funny... the motion of his hands ...up, down, up, down, up, down, up... so rhythmic! I remember how the knife reflected light. Bright yellow speckled with red."

"And do you know what he did when he was all done with her? When you couldn't tell if she was once a human? He turned to me and he said...he said... why so serious? HA! Lets put a smile on that face!"

A laugh. A laugh that sounded like crashing trains. Like rumbling thunder. Like a child's scream. Like death.

"What did you do to him?" I finally found my voice. It was clear and steady and sharp and not like my own at all.

"What do you think? Obviously that same thing he did to my mother."

"And your sister?"

A sigh.

"Bright yellow speckled with red. It was SO pretty!"


End file.
